Lightning has its shadows
by Ebyru
Summary: They say lightning never strikes the same spot twice, but for Erik it does.


Sometimes he can see shadows, flashes of light, an outline and (when he's very lucky) flickers of existence all around him. He's never alone, but the darkness, the silence from this curse, the absence that is almost suffocating, surrounding him like a cloak or a blanket, it blocks out any and all warmth.

He feels alone.

But he thinks it can only get better.

That's how most kids his age are; bright, optimistic and carefree. That's how he should try to be.

Then years with this perpetual darkness—a trait he wasn't born with—pass him by like a bolt of lightning in a rainstorm. Except it's not beautiful like lightning is supposed to be. (Or so he's been told.) It's not iridescent, incandescent or ephemeral. It just is, and it's never-ending.

His teenage mind doesn't cope as well with his situation.

The all-consuming shade that he can see blends in any and all features of humanity, of nature, of life as a whole. Teenagers want to experience anything and everything they can; fear and worry but a thing of their future. And yet, all he can think of is how his existence has been obstructed, blocked, by a sign that says 'sorry, this way is closed to you'.

He shouldn't still feel alone, like some victim; he's made a few friends, his family support him, and he does well in school.

His mother, kind and nurturing like most are, keeps telling him it can only get better. And he tries to believe that because she's the one saying it. Because he can't sleep at night if he doesn't try something.

Some things are easier in college, but others are harder.

Making friends was never a problem considering he's well-off, smart, and friendly when spoken to. Even as a young boy, people just seemed drawn to his charm, and he was glad for that. But deeper relationships, the kind he's beginning to crave as a young adult, he can't seem to grab hold of them yet.

People don't mind being with you if it means they have no responsibility over you. As long as you can take care of yourself, everything is okay. But him, with his diminishing vision making him confuse night and day, he's a responsibility. He's a burden.

He can even feel it taking a toll on his family.

So he strives for independence like no one else his age. Whether he needs help or not, he throws himself forward into whatever the situation. He prays before he crosses the street, hoping today isn't the day he's hit by a rule-breaking driver who absolutely had to run a yellow light too late. He prays before he places his foot on the first step of his school's staircase, always worried about taking a misstep on the way down, causing a head-on collision with the cement. He prays that he doesn't lose his sense of direction and end up walking along the wrong path, leading him into unknown territory. He prays even though he doesn't consider himself very religious. He does it to keep his mother's frail heart intact. He does it whether he actually wants to continue living this way or not.

The day is like any other; filled with subtle breathing, clearing of throats, footsteps and the slight click of a smile thrown in his direction. If he can be thankful for anything, it's the fact that he can hear the existence of others, although he cannot see them.

His dear friend, Hank McCoy, a genius and somewhat rebellious young man, is too ill to accompany him to school. He always felt bad about it in the past, considering Hank had graduated years ago, but his friend assured him it was no problem.

It's the first time this has happened. The first time he's been left to cross the street alone, to find his way completely unaccompanied. He's never openly asked to hold on to Hank, nor did he ever confirm or rely on his eyes too much. He was just his safety net in case he was distracted or too tired one day.

Of course he has his cane with him, but it's never really brought him any comfort. It's a flimsy piece of plastic or metal (he can't tell), and he's certain he could bend it if he really wanted to, rendering it useless. He folds it up and slips it into his backpack, pushing himself to be more independent than ever and get over his fear of being alone.

He walks to school regardless of the uneven beat of his heart, the anxiety, and the dash of loneliness from not having his partner in crime next to him. If people didn't know better, which they don't in large crowds (too busy looking at their cellphones or reading newspapers), they'd think he was perfectly normal, and without a single fault.

But they'd be wrong. And they are.

He crosses the street, the steady beeping of the traffic light signaling that it's safe for him to go to the other side. There's murmuring behind him; the quiet hush of girls younger than him, and he smiles thinking they are paying him a compliment behind their curved palms.

He continues to stride across, and an older voice says 'hey' with a hint of worry behind it. But he's not sure if it's meant for him, and even if it is, he doesn't recognize that voice, so he trudges forward. The young girls and the man all shout at once 'hey, sir, there's a car coming'. But he's certain he can still hear the beeping, knows it's there.

He trusts his hearing blindly—literally.

'Stop', shouts the man from behind him, and he knows that tone, can sense the imminent danger that's awaiting him, but he can't avoid it. He can't see where it's coming from to move out of the way. And then it's suddenly right next to him, screeching and sliding and crashing into his ribs, his hip, his leg. He would scream, wants to more than anything, but something is filling his lungs too quickly, preventing him from crying out that he knew this would happen. The something continues to drown out his sounds, thick and disgusting, so he assumes it must be blood.

His eyes well with tears when he hears people crowding around him, flipping their phones open to call an ambulance, gasping when they see the damage done. Someone says the driver is already dead.

For once, he's glad he can't see. But suddenly, he wishes he couldn't feel either.

If he's not mistaken, parts of the car broke off in the collision and flew into different parts of his body, including his face—his eyes, more precisely. If he wasn't already blind, he would be worried.

Seems like sometimes bad things can make you thankful for things you used to hate.

He tries to smile, but blood sputters out of his mouth instead, and he slips away, deeper into the darkness he knows so well.

'Hey', and the voice sounds near, not because they know each other, but in proximity. 'Hey', the person repeats. He can tell it's a man's voice, one with an accent and a gentle tone. It reminds him of Hank.

Hank.

He tries to ask about his friend, but there's a tube down his throat, blocking anything that is not air from passing. He closes his eyes, in case they weren't already closed—he still can't tell—and leans into the pillow behind him.

The man is next to him, his breath shallow and warm as it tangles with the strands of hair on his arm. It's oddly…pleasant.

He drifts back into slumber, grateful that, even if he might not survive this, he doesn't have to face it alone.

He hears quiet whimpering next to him when he wakes the next morning, and he knows it's his mother from the hysteria seeping through it. His fingers search in darkness as they always have, looking for her hand, trying to console her even if he needs some support himself.

"Erik," she cries silently for a few moments, wiping her face with her other hand. "It's my fault, I should have hired people to assist you, I should have homeschooled you, I should have protected you more." She cries, the tears staining his hand with pained drops. He reaches up tentatively, finding her cheek and rubbing them away.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she nuzzles against his palm for a moment. "I'll let you rest now." He hears the dragging of the legs of the chair and footsteps, followed by the click of the door.

His hand falls limp; he finds himself alone again.

Another voice is calling out to him when he wakes the next morning. Or perhaps it's the afternoon if the clamour is any indication, but it is a hospital, so he can't be certain.

"Hey, buddy," Hank whispers, his voice morose and low. Nothing like how it usually sounds.

He wants to tell him not to feel guilty, not to feel responsible, but the wretched tube is still down his throat, leaving him with no choice but to listen and suffer in silence. He feels for the hand leaning against his bedside, holding his hand gently. If ever there was a time he wished Hank could read minds, this would be it.

"He says not to worry about it," interrupts the voice from earlier. It's the kind man with the English accent again, Erik thinks first, and then, /why does he know what I'm thinking?/ And as an afterthought, /why is he in the hospital visiting me?/

Hank turns to look at the man; Erik can tell from the shifting he hears in the seat. "Are you sure? He's not mad at me?" His voice, his guilt, is devastating for Erik to hear, so he thinks of all the good things, all the things he never thanked Hank for, all at once and prays they reach the mysterious man's mind again.

"He has so much to thank you for. He says he couldn't have gotten through life so long without you. Does that sound like someone who is upset with you, Hank?"

"No," is the reply that follows, sounding brighter already. Hank turns back to face Erik, "I promise I will find a way to heal you faster. I'll make you better than ever." He squeezes Erik's hand once more before slipping out of the room past the English man.

"Why can I hear you? Because it's an ability I've had since birth. I can hear everyone's thoughts." He walks to the empty chair, taking a seat quietly not to startle Erik. "Do you have an ability? Besides your amazing survival rate, that is."

/I can't do anything that well. I've been blind my whole life so my other senses developed. That's it./

The man nods, leaning in closer. "I think you'll be capable of great things after this though. And sorry, I forgot to mention my name is Charles Xavier."

/Why are you allowed here? Were you there when I had the accident?/

"Your mother is too devastated by seeing you like this, she asked me and Hank to watch over you for a few days until she could face you again. She really blames herself, it's horrible." Charles shakes his head, leaning back in the chair.

/Can you tell her that everything will be alright, even if I'm not sure it will be?/

"You shouldn't worry, Erik. Hank is a brilliant man, with many connections, I'm sure you'll be fine." Charles smiles, he knows, because he hears the familiar click of the muscles sliding into place.

Suddenly it feels like he's back home. He drifts deep into slumber.

Footsteps shuffle into the room, and Erik sends thoughts out immediately; this being the only way he can talk for now.

"Hank has an ability as well, and I don't mean his intelligence. How did you know it was me?"

Charles chuckles, approaching the only seat near the bed, on Erik's right. "Honestly, if you can tell me how you knew, I will give you a hint as to what Hank's ability is."

/You're confident when you walk, I can tell by the even steps. And you smell like a cologne I've always wanted to buy, but never got around to. So what's Hank's special skill?/

"I've affectionately nicknamed him Beast," Charles sends the rest into Erik's mind, keeping it from Hank's ears in case he pops in. /But don't tell him, I haven't asked if it was alright with him yet./

/Beast? Is he really hairy? And why did that sound different than usual? I didn't hear you with my ears, what was that?/

Erik shifts in bed, the tube just as imposing as ever, keeping blood from going back into his lungs. But he's thankful for the job it's doing if he can find out more about what makes his friends special, what attracts them to him.

Charles laughs, his hand catching part of the sound as to not disturb the patients in more critical condition. /He's only eighteen; he is barely an adult. He's not hairy, I assure you. He has monstrous strength, and can use his feet just as primates can. It's fascinating, really./

/Are you saying he's like a gorilla? That doesn't sound like the Hank I know./

/Maybe he kept it from you because of your impaired vision. I'm sure he would have told you when he was ready./

Erik nods, turning to face Charles.

And there they are; the flashes, the flickers of light he once saw when he was a child. For a moment, he thinks he can almost make out a part of Charles's face, maybe his lips, or his nose, or perhaps his eyes. But then it all goes black, and he's back to where he started; uncertain of the time of day or whether his eyes are open or closed.

/Did you see something, Erik?/

But Erik isn't in the mood to discuss the what ifs, and the maybes. He knows that no matter how well he heals, he'll never see again.

Hank returns the next day with a ruckus-producing set of objects packed into a small plastic bag. That's all Erik can distinguish. Doctors are swarming the younger man, telling him he can't and that it's unsafe. But he pushes them away and locks the door behind him.

/What's going on?/

Charles doesn't answer, and it worries him. He's afraid, for the first time in his life, that Hank will do something he doesn't approve of.

Hank sets up his equipment on Erik's bedside table; needles, substances that smell so strong they burn his eyes, and other things he can't recognize by sound alone.

His friend finally leans in when everything is prepared, "I'm almost certain this will heal you in a matter of days instead of months. I can't keep watching you so lifeless anymore. If anything goes wrong, I will find a way to fix it, and sacrifice my own life if I have to."

Erik shifts in bed, trying to tell him it's not a good idea, but he doesn't listen.

When the first needle pierces his skin, he realizes it's an anaesthetic.

Erik doesn't know if a few hours passed, or if it was days, but his stomach is finally rumbling. And an empty stomach means he's no longer being fed through an IV, and no more IV means that he's finally healing, almost back to the state he was.

He listens for any sign of someone else in the room, but doesn't hear anyone. Outside his door, he can hear his mother's voice. She's unhappy about something, scolding someone, and it's probably Hank considering what he did.

If he could speak right now, he'd be yelling at him, too.

Wait.

Erik slides his fingers up his neck, to where the tube /used to/ be. It's gone. He smiles widely; at long last, he can speak aloud again, without needing Charles's help. Erik's so relieved, so happy, the tears just flow from his eyes with no sign of stopping. He feels kind of vulnerable, but he can't help how his body is reacting.

"Never thought I'd see someone cry so much out of joy," Charles says softly, cautiously. "I'm glad I could witness it though."

"Wh-" Erik is almost afraid to use his vocal chords. "—When did you get here?"

"Just now, don't worry," Charles's arms are crossed as he leans on the wall across from Erik's bed. "How are you feeling?"

"B-better," he clears his throat. "Not used to talking anymore though."

"Glad to hear that, Erik," Charles smiles warmly. "You've been asleep for three days, so we began to worry something went wrong."

"Three days?" He gulps, attempting to sit up. And, luckily, it's a success. "I feel a lot better, actually. Better than before even."

Erik opens his eyes, preparing to meet the same darkness he greets day in and day out, but is pleasantly surprised when he's mistaken.

Streams of light come in to view, all of them brighter than the next, like pieces of a puzzle snapping into place. It's almost too bright; he wishes he still had his sunglasses on. But instead of the flickers fading away into a shade of what they were, they brighten, intensify. Erik squints, the whole room lighting up in a flash.

It's like lightning; iridescent, incandescent and beautiful.

But thankfully, this moment isn't ephemeral.

It's all too much for Erik, too overwhelming. Charles is rushing to his side; he can see the contour of his small frame, but he's slipping in and out of consciousness too quickly, and it's stopping him from seeing much else.

Except his eyes. Erik sees a colour for the first time, and though he can't know for sure, he thinks it's might be blue. He's already decided it's his favourite colour, regardless of what it is.

"Erik? Erik!" Charles voice calls out to him, but his mind is already far away, his eyes slowing shutting again to shield him from his newfound sight.

"What do you mean he could see you? All I did was create a formula to boost the healing speed," Hank rubs his head, confused. "What if that's just a temporary side effect and it gets his hopes up?"

"That's true," Charles adds solemnly. "I'd be greatly upset if that happened to me."

Erik clears his throat, the conversation having woken him from his sleep. He sits up in bed slowly; his muscles still limp from not being used for a few weeks.

Hank and Charles walk over to his bed at record speed, each taking a different side. His close friend speaks first. "How are you feeling, buddy? Better I hope."

"Much, thanks to your crazy injections," Erik smiles, keeping his eyes shut to avoid being disappointed.

Hank looks over at Charles, nodding for him to say something. Charles sighs and says, "Will you open your eyes for us? Even if your vision is but temporary, shouldn't you enjoy it while you can?"

Erik grumbles, rubbing at his temple. "You two should have never met each other. Two smart people with nothing better to do." But he's only teasing, they can tell, and he begins to force his eyelids open carefully.

What do they say about lightning? It never strikes twice in the same place, right?

In Erik's case, it does. The contours of the people around him, the chairs in the room, the table, the ceiling lights, the titles on the floor and ceiling, everything is coming into view. It's so amazing, so captivating, that it's breathtaking.

He looks over at Hank for the first time; baby-faced, tall, sensitive eyes and a warm smile. He's almost exactly how he imagined him (minus the height).

Erik points to his friend's features slowly, 'That eye colour, it's blue, right?'

Hank swallows down his glee for a moment. "Yes my eyes are blue, as are Charles's."

Facing the English man instead, he smiles when those giant, blue saucers come into view. Radiant and intense, his eyes shine with a childlike quality, bordered with adult knowledge. His hair is a luscious brown, his skin a delightful contrast to that, while his full lips make him seem almost younger than Hank.

"I can see," Erik mumbles at first. "I can see you, both of you." He drags Hank in for a hug. "Thank you so much, but if you ever make me a guinea pig again, I will kill you."

Hank laughs, wiping the tears from his eyes and glancing down at his watch. "Oh!" He grabs his bags on the floor and his jacket. "I just remembered I have some research papers to fill out for the government, I will let your mom know you're doing better, okay?"

Erik waves. He takes in every detail, every feature, every bit of his best friend for future reference. Charles watches him do this, a smirk on his lips. "You are quite fond of him, aren't you?"

"Yes—wait—how do you mean?" Erik narrows his eyes at Charles instinctively.

"I see you're already getting used to using your vision for body signals," Charles claps a hand on Erik's shoulder. "I just meant he's very dear to you, that's all."

"That's right. He is," he adds quietly, trying to bury the words far from where Hank can find them. "I've been wondering, how have you been able to come here so often? Don't you study or work?"

"Ah, yes," Charles rubs the nape of his neck. "You see, I have a doctorate in genetics. I recently earned it." He looks away, his eyes shifting side to side nervously. "I was kind of studying you for a while, and then the accident happen. So I felt awful for not intervening properly."

"You were the one trying to warn me?" Erik asks calmly. "If only I had known you were talking to me."

"Perhaps if the accident never occurred—" Charles offers Erik a smile. "—we might have never met, and you may have never seen either of our faces."

/I wonder if I'm handsome./

"I assure you, you are," Charles grins, taking his hand. "A genuine heartbreaker."

Erik laughs boisterously, thoroughly enjoying Charles's choice of words. "Are there any mirrors around?"

Charles glances around the private room. "Not that I can see."

"There," Erik points to a small round mirror with a metallic frame. "That's one right?"

Charles walks over to it, trying to pull it off. It's drilled into the wall, though, and Charles may be good at bending minds, but not so much as bending objects. "Sorry, Erik."

Erik drops his hand, and with it falls the mirror, right into Charles's grasp.

They stare at each other for long moments. Charles finally breaks the silence, although he could just do it telepathically.

"Did you—did you do that Erik?"

"I don't know," he looks down at his hands.

His palms seem the same as his friends'; they don't look different, don't feel different either. Nothing has changed about the skin or the lines. They're the same as he remembers them always being.

"Could that have just been a coincidence? Or a side effect even?" Charles rubs his chin questioningly. "Only one way to find out, I suppose."

Erik watches as Charles picks up his jacket and heads towards the door.

"I'll be back in a little while, try to rest your eyes. They're still not used to light like mine are."

Erik doesn't reopen his eyes until he hears the familiar footsteps of the smaller man enter.

"Open them now," Charles says happily. There's a mirror in his grip, a better one with a golden border. But more importantly, there's the reflection of a man, a man he's never seen before; himself.

"That's me?" Erik touches his cheek, feeling the hollow below his bones as he watches his reflection do the same. His eyes are blue and another colour. They're interesting, but not as translucent as Charles's are. His features are harsh yet soft at the same time, his hair slightly messy from all the days spent lying in bed. He looks older than he imagined.

"Sorry it took so long," Charles hands the mirror to Erik. "I was looking for the right one for your first time seeing your appearance. You're not too bad, right? In spite of the bruises." He leans in next to Erik, an arm around his shoulder. "In fact, I think the bruises make you look more rugged and charming."

"Is that so?" Erik can't help the blush creeping up on his skin. "You're not too bad yourself, Charles."

"I try," he punctuates the sentence with a snort. "But if you're done with the mirror, I have something more interesting to show you."

What could be more interesting than Charles and all his facets?

Charles smirks at the thought. Erik forgot his friend had that ability for a moment.

"A game called chess."

Erik blinks. "What I've heard of chess seems somewhat uninteresting."

"Well it requires a mind made for an empire," Charles nudges his friend gently. "Are you a leader, darling?"

"That I am," Erik grins. "I guess I could give it a shot and see how it goes."

"Actually, I wanted to test out something at the same time."

Erik watches as Charles places the wooden board on his lap on the bed, not warning him beforehand, setting up each side with their own coloured pieces. Some are bronze while others are shinier, more like the border of the mirror. He figures out they must be silver pieces, just for him.

"I see now what you have in mind," Erik says as he takes one of the metallic horses in his grip.

"Well, even if it doesn't work, we can just enjoy the game," he says without looking up at the injured man and his inquiring fingers.

Erik nods, putting the piece back in its spot. "What are the rules?"

"I'll teach you them as we go," Charles laughs, sitting back in his chair. "How does that sound to a genius like you?"

"Perfect," he reaches over the pieces to move a pawn and the entire row moves forward at the same time.

"I knew it," Charles says triumphantly. "I knew I felt something in you. I thought I was seeing things amidst all the screaming and terror, but you really can control metal."

Erik rubs his temple, keeping his hands far from the pieces. "How did you know?"

"The car, when it hit you, instead of you being the one to be projected, the car practically folded in on itself." Charles snaps his fingers. "It makes sense that you'd still be injured since you weren't aware of your ability at the time, and you couldn't see where it was to avoid it."

Erik stares at Charles for a short while. "So, you noticed, even before my family or I did, that I had an ability?" He crosses his arms. "Is that why you were following me that day?"

"I told you, it was before that day." Charles breaks eye contact and looks down at the chess pieces.

Wrapping his fingers around his friend's wrist, he asks for him to glance up, kindly, without the use of words. "Why didn't you talk to me sooner?"

"I couldn't," he adds quickly. "I am not like you. You seem so fearless and strong."

"I am nothing like that. I'm probably the most cowardly man you'll ever meet." Erik sighs, flashing his biggest smile at the embarrassed man. "It's not like I could even see you."

"That's why I felt safe," Charles confesses. "I knew I could be content by just admiring you from afar."

"Admiring, now?" Erik interjects. "It's starting to sound serious." His smile softens. "You're a good person, Charles. You shouldn't be afraid of letting people notice you."

"Thank you," Charles grabs Erik's hand. "I appreciate your kindness. Sincerely."

Erik starts to lean in, his eyes hypnotized, being pulled in, by those blue diamonds calling out to him. He doesn't know how much longer he can resist kissing Charles, doesn't know if he will even let him, but he wants to try anyway. Hank returns just as their lips are about to meet, and he startles Erik so much the board pieces are projected at the wall, 'accidentally' surrounding his best friend on all sides in the process.

Hank was more impressed than frightened by Erik's little 'chess piece trick', as he so amicably dubbed it. So impressed in fact, that he pulls out a notepad and immediately begins to draw the blueprints for what he thinks will be his greatest invention yet.

He does this for a few minutes, casually looking up at the lovebirds every once in a while, then back down at the lines of his paper. Charles whispers to Erik, asking if he's always like this, but Erik just laughs it off.

"I need some kind of catalyst," Hank looks up from his scribbles again. Charles head is tilted to the side, curious and playful at once. "You!"

"Me?" Charles asks, pointing to his chest. "I'm a catalyst for what? Your insanity perhaps?"

Erik begins to laugh, but suddenly Hank is dragging Charles out the door with no more warning than a quick 'we'll be back'.

His mother is almost too overwhelmed, overjoyed by the good that came from such a terrible trauma. She can't believe her precious, independent, strong, brilliant son would ever be able to smile the way he did when he was a young boy. But he is.

And his smile only grows as he sees his mother again for the first time in 20 years. The image he had of her long past faded away, much like his hope of ever finding a romantic partner. He replaces what he can remember with this new, older version of the person who gave him so much more than life.

He wipes her tears away softly, petting her hair like she used to when he was a lost and pessimistic little boy. Erik knows she can't believe it's true, doesn't trust the good fortune that's fallen into their laps. She looks up with swollen eyes, nuzzling into his hand as she did when things seemed bleak.

But this time, things aren't so sombre.

As soon as his mother steps out, the duo from earlier take her place in Erik's comfortable hospital room. Hank walks over to Erik's side, glancing at his vitals, then at his close friend. He looks at his watch, making sure he has time to explain everything before the visiting hours are over.

It's a machine, he tells Erik. A machine that can find people who feel just as lost as Erik did. It requires Charles's mind as the 'battery', while the energy transmitted from his brainwaves turn those people with abilities into coordinates just waiting to be found. It's not complete, however, and it won't be any time soon considering he doesn't have the type of funding required to build something of a robotic brain.

"I can give you what you need," Charles offers first. Erik was thinking the same thing, but he beat him to it. "If that's alright with you, Erik."

"Sure." Erik smiles, crossing his hands on his lap.

"I'd much rather earn the money myself though," Hank admits.

"Consider it a loan then," says the older man. "I'll expect repayment in full. In people with abilities, that is."

"I'll do my best," Hank beams up at his older friends.

Erik's smile is bright and charming, and mostly aimed at Charles.

Hank clears his throat and pretends not to notice their shameless flirting. "I have to be off now. Plenty to prepare and work on." He waves at either man and shuffles out as quickly as he arrived.

Charles glances at his watch, "Oh dear, I have a class to assist in an hour."

"You should get going too then," Erik leans on his hand, blinking slowly, his lips curled in a devious smile.

Resisting the urge to read his friend's mind, he asks him instead. "What is that look about?"

Erik flicks his wrist and the lock of his door slides into place.

"Someone has been practicing while I was away," Charles snickers. "But I really must be going."

"Let me just finish what I was starting," Erik says, gesturing for Charles to come closer.

And although he knows it's a bad idea, knows he'll miss his class, Charles leans over Erik at his bedside like he has so many times in the past weeks. Erik wraps a hand around the back of Charles's neck, dragging him in for their first official kiss.

Time seems to stop as soon as their lips touch. Charles melts into every curve of Erik's lips, tasting along the ridges of his palette, the edges of his teeth, the dampness of his tongue.

The minutes melt away like marshmallows in hot chocolate; just as sweet, just as delicious. Each kiss gives birth to one more, and they multiply like rabbits, the number too large to be counted or kept track of.

This is the moment Erik has always been waiting for.

Before he knows it, he's being discharged from the hospital. Before he can process it, acknowledge it, he's in a relationship with one of the most amazing people he's ever met.

Hank invites them as a pair to his lab, knowing if they are separated for even a few hours their attention span is at its worst; all they can do is think of each other. At first, Hank wonders why Erik didn't fall for him instead, but that thought is quickly cast aside when Charles introduces him to his mysterious and intelligent younger sister named Raven.

Suddenly they're four in his lab, and his experiments all seem to turn out much better than they did in the past when he had no one to succeed for. Now there is every reason in the world for him to double check, triple check his calculations. If ever one thing goes wrong, then the people he needs the most would pay the highest price.

Charles promises to move in with Erik when he graduates university. And the day after he receives his diploma, there is a truck in front of his apartment with stacks of boxes being piled onto his balcony. Erik lets the smaller man in gladly.

He's already occupied most of his internal space anyhow, what's wrong with a little less external space to match?

When everything is moved in, and Charles is sweaty, throwing his shirt into what will be his new room, Erik takes the time to admire each and every curve of his lover's body.

They have sex for the first time in Erik's bed because it just so happens his bed is the only one prepared for such an impromptu act. They go for round two, but this time more roughly, and with more skill than the first. The third time they have sex, they end up in a heap of aching limbs on the floor.

Neither could decide who would be on top.

Erik wakes up before Charles the following morning. He appreciates the rays of sunlight, the squirrels scurrying up and down the trees, the blues and whites of the clear sky, everything he couldn't admire before the accident.

He begins to make coffee, not like normal people would, but the way he's accustomed to since he discovered his ability. His mug floats up to his lips, another silently waiting on the table for Charles's arrival. Erik takes another long sip, not paying attention to the ruckus of teenage boys outside.

One of them yells at the other, and they scatter like mice, or so Erik can hear because they're too far away for him to see. A baseball comes flying through the glass of his kitchen window before he can dodge it in time, before he can avoid the shards heading towards his face.

Hank is there in record time. Injecting Erik with his miracle cure, hoping it will have the same secondary effects as it did in the hospital, but it doesn't work. Charles is clinging onto Erik's shoulder, whimpering and repeating how sorry he is for not waking up and being there to warn him.

"I don't think it would have changed anything," Erik says quietly. "It was too fast to avoid."

Erik doesn't bother telling his mother he's lost his sight again.

It doesn't feel the same.

This time he's not alone; he can see the contours of their bodies clearly in his mind, can remember the lines around their mouths when they smiled, can picture the tint of their tears when they cried.

This time he's not alone because he's accumulated so many memories, fine details that others overlook and take for granted.

No, this time he's not alone because he has Charles, and Charles has always been there watching over him.


End file.
